


All I Know Is A New Found Grace

by Sigridhr



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, F/F, Tauriel is angsty, mallorns are terrible eavesdroppers, oppressive(ly vague) forests, schmoop?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 12:24:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5869357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sigridhr/pseuds/Sigridhr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Searching for something she can't quite define, Tauriel comes to Lothlórien. It doesn't go quite as she expects.</p><p>Set post-BoFA.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All I Know Is A New Found Grace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kimaracretak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimaracretak/gifts).



> I hope you like! I took recovery-from-trauma and went a bit more Tauriel has a midlife crisis (of sorts), but I hope this at least is in the general vicinity of fitting the bill.

Tauriel is hungry, exhausted and hollow, and every inch of her skin tingles with a sense of unbelonging. She can count the hours precisely since she left Mirkwood, now never to return, and, although she feels the loss of the home she grew up in, she does not regret it. She stands on the threshold of another wood now. 

She prefers the comfort of resting amongst the trees, but has no doubt that these are not her own. She’s still wary enough to know she’s probably being watched, but too exhausted to truly care, and yet sees or hears no sign of a guard. 

The trees are tall, and wide, and remote. She presses her fingers against their bark and digs her nails in, – just a little –, and it’s cold. And above her, the branches sway darkly against the night sky, blocking out the stars. There are no spiders lurking in these trees, nothing peering at her out of the darkness – and it’s only a half-darkness, really, as the moonlight filters through the branches well enough that she can still see. But it still feels colder – though nobler – than her own home.

In the end, Tauriel feels very small, curled up on a branch with her cloak wrapped around her, and far from home.

It is on the second day that she stumbles into a clearing and finds _her_. 

The first thing Tauriel notices is her hair – golden and radiant like the sun, with silver intermingled within it, and it seems to _fly_ , swirling out around her as she turns. It’s a dance that seems to be missing partners, full of joy and laughter that presses against Tauriel’s skin and mingles with sorrow. Then, abruptly, she stops. 

So does the world, (or, at least, so it seems). The birdsong stills and the whole woods seem to hold their breath as the dancer’s hair settles slowly at her back, her eyes wide and slightly startled, and her cheeks flushed.

“I am sorry to intrude,” Tauriel says. Her throat feels tight, as if she’s walked into a situation much more intimate than she’d intended. 

“You are welcome here,” she replies, composing her self, standing a little straighter. She studies Tauriel thoughtfully. 

“I often come here to be alone,” she then adds, and, although her tone is light, there is a keenness in her gaze that Tauriel finds intimidating. “None before have come here uninvited, or unlooked for.” 

Tauriel snaps back into well-practiced formality and bows, but before she can speak she is dismissed with an almost lazy wave of an arm.

“Did I not say you were welcome here? You have no need to bow to me.”

Tauriel still finds it hard to quite meet her eyes, but even harder to look away. “Nevertheless,” she says, “I am sorry to have interrupted you.” 

Once again, Tauriel is scrutinized, and she feels as if more than she’d like is read in that swift gaze. “You are an anomaly,” the elleth says, thoughtfully, “but by no means an unwelcome interruption. Come.” 

It is, without question, an order, and Tauriel cannot but oblige.

“I am Tauriel,” she says.

This is met with a nod. “I am Galadriel,” is the reply. “These are my woods.” 

So too might Thranduil have said if she’d come unannounced to Mirkwood, but Tauriel cannot help but feel that the woods belong, truly, to no one.

…

Caras Galadhon is utterly unlike her home, a cathedral to a past she feels little connection to, held frozen in time. It strikes her almost as cold, after watching the rapid decay of Mirkwood, and picking, bit by bit, at the growing scab upon it. Galadriel has power that Thranduil can never hope to claim. 

Galadriel takes her to a flet, and at once a washbasin and clean clothes are provided, as well as a tray of food which smells absolutely heavenly. It is the first time she’s had clean clothes nearly a month and she has to refrain from falling on them like a starving animal. Galadriel smiles knowingly, as if she’s picked up these thoughts – and, perhaps she has. Tauriel expects it’s written plainly enough on her face. 

“I take my leave,” she says, but her eyes seem to twinkle with laughter.

…

In clean clothes, Tauriel almost feels a different person. 

The air in Lothlórien is light – much lighter than back home (though the voice in the back of her mind reminds her it’s no longer _her_ home) – and she feels reinvigorated as she sets out to explore.

She can hear a faint hum of quiet conversations all around her, as Caras Galadhon goes about its day. She misses the ever-present of sound of water in Thranduil’s halls, and the filtered light, always golden in the caves. Though the mallorn leaves have turned gold, – and it is a sight utterly unlike anything else she has ever seen –, she wants nothing more than to climb up and out to the stars. 

She wanders through the city, poking about curiously, and, though no one appears disturbed by her presence, few acknowledge her at all. It’s only after she’s walked right into the heart of it all that she spots Galadriel again. 

With a tiny hint of a smile, Galadriel turns, walking barefoot through the grass, and, almost helplessly, Tauriel follows. 

They come to a clearing, and in the centre sits a bowl upon a dias.

“Do you wish to look into the mirror?” Galadriel asks.

“I am unsure,” says Tauriel. “I have many questions, but I do not know if I want to know the answers.” 

Galadriel looks at her, considering. “There may be answers, or, perhaps, there may be more questions. You are lost, your future is uncertain.” 

Tauriel feels the woods shift around her, the tall mallorn trunks seem to lean in, waiting. 

“And if I refuse?” 

Galadriel seems give the effect of shrugging without actually doing so. “It is your right. You are free to remain here as long as you wish.” 

“What would you do?” Tauriel asks.

Galadriel smiles. “I would look,” she says, ruefully. “Always. But I confess a certain degree of curiosity about what the mirror may hold for you.” 

Tauriel steps up towards the mirror. The water ripples gently on the surface in the breeze. Then, as if taking a plunge, she looks in. 

At once, a murmur seems to arise from the trees around her, a sort creaking and shifting that rises to a low hum and settles uncomfortably beneath her skin. There is power here, thrumming gently beneath the surface – of the water, of the earth – and of Galadriel, who seems to burn bright just outside Tauriel’s sight. She catches a glimpse of silver-gold hair in the water, and sucks in a sharp breath of air. She sees a tall city in white, upon a green hill – bright and beautiful, and clouded by a fog. She catches glimpses of fire, blood – or orc faces, ugly and misshapen, – of Lothlórien as it was before Galadriel had come, wilder and less proud, less timeless. A great dog, snarling and wild, and then darkness. Then, at last, she sees Mirkwood – as it was, before the darkness came, and then she sees long legs and webs running through the trees, and the doors to Thranduil’s hall shut, and dark. 

She takes a step back, breathing heavily. 

Galadriel is still watching her. 

“That gives me nothing,” Tauriel spits, surprised at her own bitterness. “Where do I go? What should I do?”

“I cannot tell you,” Galadriel says. “You must decide for yourself.” 

“I do not belong here,” Tauriel says. 

Galadriel steps around the mirror to stand beside her, and carefully takes a lock of Tauriel’s hair, – bright red against the pale skin of Galadriel’s hands, and her breath catches, body tingling to feel her suddenly so close – brushing it over her shoulder. 

“I believe you were meant to come here,” Galadriel says. “But what you do now is entirely up to you.” 

Galadriel’s hand brushes Tauriel’s cheek, and she can feel herself flush in surprise. “But I urge you to stay, if only for a little while. Perhaps you will find belonging.” 

It is with utter reckless abandon, giddy and confused and hopelessly lost that Tauriel kisses Galadriel. It’s sloppy and messy and she does it so suddenly their teeth clack, but Galadriel holds her, firmly but gently, until she settles into gentler, better kisses. 

Galadriel’s tongue slips into her mouth and she moans, the sound loud and raw and almost startling in the quiet clearing. But Galadriel simply laughs, pulling Tauriel closer and pressing the line of their bodies together, heady and warm, and her hand rests on the small of Tauriel’s back like a lifeline, holding her steady. 

She is lost in sensation, almost weightless, but her tongue feels heavy on Galadriel’s skin, and, as she cries out into the night, she is, for the first time in a long time, free of grief. 

But even later, as she lay next to Galadriel, their hair intermingling and Galadriel’s fingers intertwined with her own, she feels out of place. If Galadriel senses it (which, Tauriel thinks, she probably does), she says nothing, simply holding tightly onto her hand, grounding her to this moment. The canopy above them is like an unfamiliar set of constellations she has yet to map. 

And, yet, as she reaches above her head to brush the bark of the mallorn tree, it is warm.


End file.
